It was love at first sight. I could hardly wait to take her home. It was the beginning of an affair that was to last all of 12 years. Blind-sided with epilepsy when she was a year old, she never complained. As for me, there are no regrets. For love as they say is blind. “Ganesh! You really spent a lot of time finding a name for her! Didn’t you?’ A friend teased. ‘Bhuri—as in brown?’
What could I say? One could safely divide the world into dog persons and non-dog people. And that is how it has always been. I’ve laughed with her, and she’s chuckled with me. I’ve enjoyed her antics or found solace in her presence on dark, cold, nights.
Over the years, dogs of all shapes and sizes have filled up our lives, most without the privilege of high birth. Talking of strays takes me back in time when a certain Penny Roberts lived in a picture-book cottage a little ways away from our bazaar. She would take in any mutt wandering around in the streets for a single reason: love.
Once upon a time she and her husband had been the toast of the hill station, teaching folks to dance at the Hakman’s Grand Hotel. Until the day he collapsed at the counter while collecting his war-reparation’s pension. Fending for herself, she returned home to turn recluse. For 20 years no one saw her, that is, except for the shopkeeper who’d leave provisions at the doorstep and pick up a cheque pinned to the door. It worked up to the day she too crossed the Rainbow Bridge. We knew something was wrong only when her dogs howled all night.
Whatever happened to them? Some were adopted while others escaped to the nearby villages, where you can find their descendants still roaming around. Down in Dehradun, I saw a note pinned on the board at the Band Box dry cleaners: ‘Puppies Available! But if you want a guard, get one! These puppies are for adoption—not free chowkidars!’
Cradling a puppy of indeterminate descent, I returned home. I must say Sikander managed to live up to his name. He was a free spirit, a true freelancer who refused all attempts at domestication. Of course, we bumped into him on our walks—our long lost friend would jump for joy—and then disappear into the narrow alleys.
He found freedom and personally one did not lament his going off to resettle elsewhere. Or was it liberation from worldly ties? Who knows? But this much is for sure he was a winner and would find happiness anywhere.
Generally, dogs will go along with any changes you might want, but prefer that things remain the same. Bhuri could recognise my rickety car on a busy road long before I reach my gate. She would wag her tail knowing we were coming home.
An old tale has it that after the Biblical Fall of Man, an abyss opened up, and then a dog leapt across to be with the man across the bridge to paradise. As I write, Bhuri’s grey-flecked coat hides memories of good times and bad times. Fortunately, the happy times dominate. What more can one possibly ask for!
sailiganesh@gmail.com
Author, photographer, illustrator whose works have been translated into two-dozen languages